


Reflections in the Ice

by bluegoldrose



Series: The Children of Summer, The Orphans of Winter [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Death, Future Fic, Gen, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Post-Canon, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2698352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluegoldrose/pseuds/bluegoldrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of related events after A Dance with Dragons to a worst case scenario ending in 311 AC.  A companion to my story Ripples on the Water, though reading that story is not necessary for understanding the shorts in this story.  The first few chapters center on Arya and Sansa's reunion in 305 AC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sew Straight

**Author's Note:**

> These are bits of the post-canon timeline #1 for Ripples on the Water which for various reasons may not work as flashbacks in that story.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one learns to be a courtesan. Set 304-305 AC, Arya is 15-16 years old.

Neria had been an easy face to wear.  She was not smiley and empty-headed like Mercedene had been.  She did not smell of fish like Cat.  She was not blind like Beth or ugly as the one girl had been.  Neria had been sweet, clever, and fair of face.  She had trained beside the potters in Braavos, letting her hands shape clay and coloring the pieces which were ready for their second firing in the kilns.  She took pleasure in her work and was praised by her master.  Then, nearly a year after her work had begun, Neria had to leave.

No one found her way into the dark tunnels which led from the canals to one of the hidden entrances of the House of Black and White.  She changed her face as she walked through the tunnels.  She could changer her face as easily as she changed her name, her clothes, and her life.  She made her way to the uppermost floor and knelt before the dark water to whisper her prayers to the god of many faces.

"Welcome back," said a gentle voice.  No one turned to see the waif standing beside her.  "You were successful?"

She who had once been Arya Stark acknowledged the question with a brisk nod of her head.  "The gift has been given.  Are there new assignments?"

"There will be new assignments given tomorrow.  Today you may rest or work with me or organize one of our storage rooms."

She chose to work with the waif.  She was growing more adept at recognizing and making poisons the longer she trained. Though she would never admit it, she also enjoyed spending time with the waif.  They played their games of truths and lies when they made their poisons.  She had even tricked her mentor once or twice.

They sorted through an assortment of plants which had been received that day.  Some they hung to dry.  Others were chopped, sliced, diced, and then prepared in a variety of ways.  By the end of the day, they had ten vials of toxins ready for use.

She ate her evening meal alone, in the chamber which was hers to sleep in until her next assignment.  The bed was stone, as her alcove had been, though the mattress was stuffed with feathers.  There were few decorations in the room.  A few tapestries hung from the walls, payments for various contracts over the long centuries.  A candelabra lighted the room, casting a warm glow upon the otherwise lonely chamber.

She wrapped herself in furs and read an ancient book.  She had uncovered the book in the book chamber, and had fallen in love with it.  She had not finished the story, but read more of it every time she returned to the temple.

The Waif and Kindly Man had never taken the book from her.  They had never commented upon her reading it.  They did not know that in reading the book she became someone instead of remaining no one.  In reading the book, she could remember Arya Stark and her family.

There was a noble father in one tale; he died defending his family.  There was a lovely maiden who was rescued from a tower.  There was a boy who loved scary stories.  There was a boy who felt like he did not belong.  There was a loving mother who sang to her children.  There was a boy who led an army to defend his home.

The stories, the author said, were all true.  They spoke of Nymeria of the Rhoynar.  They spoke of the dragonlords of Valyria.  They spoke of the Children of the Forest.

' _Home_ ', thought the girl who had been Arya Stark, the stories spoke of home.

Sometimes, when she dreamed at night, she was the night wolf racing through snowy forests.  She would howl into the cold winds.  She would lead her pack in the hunt for food.  She would taste blood on her lips, smell the metallic bite of it in her nose.  She would whimper in the darkness for her brothers and sister whom she could no longer feel.

She awoke in the morning, the scent of blood in her nostrils and the coppery tang on her lips.  She dressed in her robes of black and white, quickly and without ceremony.  She walked to the black pool and joined the others in the morning prayers.  They broke their fasts afterward on hard bread and fish stew.

She who had been Arya spent the rest of the morning preparing bodies for the chambers below.  The task was reserved for those on the bottom level of service in the temple.  Though she had progressed far in the ranks, she was still the newest member.  Until a new initiate arrived, lowest level duties were hers when not on assignment.

They gathered in the waning hours of the day.  Six of the faceless, plus the waif, kindly man, and the girl.  Two servants stood in the room, holding the jars of water and wine, as Arya had done when she was new to the guild.  Now, she sat at the table with the rest of her guild, discussing which contracts they would take.  The contracts were named, one by one, and each servant of the many faced god would consider whether or not they had ever known the man or woman.

She was often given very different assignments than her male counterparts, because of her youth and gender.  Now that she was a young woman and not a little girl, her new faces were more varied as well.  She could be an old crone, or a woman of middle age, or a maiden in her teenage years.  Her possibilities were no longer limited by her youth.  The waif told her that there was a potion she would drink one day to stop her moon blood forever, but she needed to stop growing first.  Every time her mood blood came she wished that the time to drink the potion was now.

More interesting than the contracts was the concern in the voices of her colleagues.  Not since the conquest of Westeros by a girl riding a dragon, two years prior, had she seen such emotion from them.  She had been taught how to see emotion in the eyes and subtle twitches of the lips.  They were worried, worried about reports from Westeros.  The dragons had been concerning because they were dragons.  The new reports were far more troubling.  Creatures of ice who could change men into monsters were said to be destroying Westeros.  The creatures were also rumored to have been seen near Norvos and Lorath.  Three of the men were assigned the task of seeking out the truth of the creatures.

The discussions reached their ending, and the men departed one by one.  Each of the faceless had been given his own task, none had been given to her.  Being passed over for an assignment was hardly unusual; they often sent her to apprentice in one location or another.  Each apprenticeship taught her a new skill, a new set of talents that she could remember and use later.  She expected that the waif would leave next, as the kindly man always told her what she was assigned.  To her surprise, he left with the servants.

“What is my assignment,” the girl asked when they were alone.

“A new apprenticeship,” the woman replied.  “You will apprentice with the Daughter of the Dusk.  She will teach you the womanly arts of seduction and pleasure.  Remember while you are with her that you are in the company of a courtesan, not a whore.  You will learn everything that she wishes to teach you.”

“This one will serve,” the girl replied, for that was the only reply acceptable in the service of Him of Many Faces.  “Who should I be?”  Though she knew the secret art of changing faces as she willed, she did not know the best person to be for her newest assignment.

“First choose your face,” was the simply stated reply.

She knew what face she wished for and applied the face at once.  She flinched in the transformation, as she always had done.  She knew that some day she would need to stop flinching every time she changed, but the pain of each life still shocked her.

The waif giggled at her choice of face.  “You could be a sister to the Queen of Westeros with a face like that.”

 _‘Cersei,’_ the girl thought, but she knew that Cersei Lannister was dead.  The Queen of Westeros was Daenerys Targaryen.  The girl whose face she wore had silvery-blonde hair and eyes like sapphires.  She had come to the House of Black and White because her heart was broken and she wished to live no longer.  The girl frowned.  “Does that matter?”

“No, the face will serve.  You could be from Lys for you know the tongue, but you have never been to that city.  Who are you?”

She was able to create life stories with relative ease after living so many lives.   “Thais.  My mother was from Lys, trained as a courtesan.  She was taken away by a wealthy sailor.  I am their daughter.  He left us in Braavos with the promise to return, but he never returned to us.  My mother died recently from an incurable cough.”

“That will serve.  Return to us when the moon is dark, though only if she will permit you to leave.  You are to serve her until your lessons are accomplished.”

“Valar dohaeris,” said Thais.

“Valar morghulis,” the waif replied.

They left the chamber, and the newly born Thais made her way to their clothing rooms.  Thais would be well dressed, she decided.  She found a green silk dress which was embroidered with lace flowers to wear, and similarly colored slippers for her feet.  She stepped out of her acolyte robes and into the garments made for a lady.  She chose a few jewels to wear, and took several coins.  Then she took her finger blade and a slim dagger and hid them in the folds of her gown.  Last of all she donned a thick wool cloak before putting away her acolyte robe and leaving the temple.

She never left through the front door of the temple, not anymore.  Her lives formed as she emerged from the many hidden doors of the temple into the fog which often filled the city.  Thais walked properly, with her head held high and an even, steady stride.  Yet it was not Thais who filled the girl’s head, it was thoughts of monsters who could turn men into monsters.  Arya Stark knew an old woman who had told tales of monsters made of ice, monsters who had disappeared thousands of years in the past.

She pulled her cloak tight about her shoulders as she walked down the many alleys of Braavos.  The air was cold, colder that Thais had ever known, but not Arya.  Arya remembered the snow.  She remembered the words of House Stark of Westeros, “Winter is Coming”.  Winter had arrived four or five years past, and was not showing any signs of ending.  The girl shook her head at herself; Arya was gone.  The night wolf inside her heart howled.

She stopped on the bridge she was crossing and held her head in her hands, breathing heavily.  She did not understand why Arya wanted to return now.  Perhaps it was the rumors about which her colleagues had been so worried.  Perhaps it was the memories those rumors were dredging up.  Perhaps it was dressing as a highborn girl for the first time since King’s Landing.  No, that was Arya Stark, the daughter of the Hand of the King, not Thais of Braavos and Lys.

When she composed herself again, she made her way from the Isle of the Gods, to the Happy Port, to the barges of the courtesans.  The last glimpses of sunset were fading into black as she approached the barge belonging to the Daughter of the Dusk.  Two guards stood watch at the dock where the barge was moored.  They barred her way, even when she said who she was and what her intentions were.  A lesser girl would have insulted them, but she was above such pettiness.  She requested to meet with a steward.  Grudgingly, one of the men left while the other watched her suspiciously.  A few minutes later, the guard returned with a beautiful woman following him.

She wore a red cloak which hung to her feet.  Her dark brown hair hung long, loose, and straight, reaching her waist.  She studied Thais with sharp eyes, and strode swiftly, but smoothly to her.  “You are late,” she said without preamble, holding her gaze until Thais lowered her eyes.

“I am sorry, my lady, I came as quickly as I could.”

She nodded and turned in one fluid motion.  “Follow me.”

Thais followed swiftly behind the woman.  The guards followed after the girl.  Once they were aboard the barge, the men raised the gangplank.  Thais followed the woman as she ordered a man to take their barge home.  She then walked to a cabin near the bow of the ship.

The cabin was richly furnished.  Thick carpets were laid on the wooden floor.  Elaborately woven tapestries hung from every wall.  The furniture was all made of hand-carved wood, lacquered and painted to befit a queen.  The couches were cushioned in velvets and silks.  There were several lanterns lighting the room, and an iron stove at the center to heat the room.

The woman sat upon a chaise near a small table which was laid with food and drink.  She motioned for the girl to sit beside her, and the girl obeyed.  “I am known as the Daughter of the Dusk.  Arjen informed me that you are Thais.  I enjoyed hearing the tale which you wove for my men.”

A smile fluttered across her lips and their eyes met again.  Her eyes were green, Thais realized, the color of emeralds and summer grass.  The Daughter of the Dusk reached for a ceramic kettle and poured two cups of tea.  She picked up her cup, took a few short sips, and returned the cup to its place on the table before she continued speaking.

“You may drink if you are thirsty.  I know that walking around Braavos in the winter season is quite cold.  The tea is warm and sweet.”

The girl mirrored the motions which she had just witnessed as she took a drink of the tea.  There was an elegance to how the woman had poured the tea and to how she drank.  She was poised and in control.  She could lead a household, a kingdom, or an army.  She reminded Thais of a woman she had known in another life, a woman with red hair and eyes as blue as water.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“I was informed that you would be entering my service today.  How old are you?”

“I believe that I am fifteen.”

“You are uncertain of your age?”

She bowed her head slightly.  “I was rather young when I arrived in Braavos.  The days are different here than they were where I was born.”

“In Westeros,” the woman asked, her voice smooth as silk, and ever polite.  The girl froze.  The woman laid a gentle hand upon her arm.  “Hush child, there is no need to worry.  I can hear the inflections in your voice.  You speak Braavosi well, but the little nuances give way to the truth.  That is the job of a courtesan, to see the truth.  Tell me child, what languages do you speak?”

She breathed deep, finding stillness, before answering.  “I speak the Common Tongue of Westeros, Braavosi, High Valyrian, trade speak, and the dialects of Lys and Pentos.”

“Can you read?”

“I can read Westerosi, Braavosi, and High Valyrian.  I can write in those three languages as well.”

“You will find that knowing how to speak, read, and write in a variety of languages will broaden your prospects when living the life of a courtesan.  Tell me, do you have any talents?”

‘ _Talents?  What sort of talents does a courtesan need?’_ She knew how to kill without being detected.  She knew how to brew poisons.  She knew how to steal.  She knew how to lie.  She did not know how to answer, but knew that her duty was to serve.  “I am willing to learn whatever you will,” she replied softly.

The woman took another drink of tea before responding.  “A courtesan is a companion and entertainer first and foremost.  Men can find a whore wherever they wish, but a courtesan is a rare prize.  We are learned in music, art, literature, rhetoric, dance, and many more aspects of being a woman.”

Her eyes studied the girl for a long time.  “I did not know,” the girl replied quietly. “I am well read.  I can tell stories.  I can speak with anyone.  I can sculpt clay with my hands.  Are those good skills to possess?”

The woman smiled.  “I believe that those are all very good skills.  Please, tell me a story.”  She reclined on the pillows, and Thais reclined to the opposite side, so that the two women could see one another clearly.

She remained quiet for several minutes before beginning her story.  “Once there was a girl.  She was the happiest girl in all the world, though she was not aware that she was the happiest girl in all the world.  She had a mother, father, brothers, and sister.  They loved her, but she never felt at home, even when she was home.”

Her story was not one she had ever told to another living person, and yet it poured from her like water.  She never shed a tear, though her eyes filled at all the appropriate moments.  She had not intended to tell the woman her life story, but the words flowed from her heart as though she would break if her story remained untold.  She changed names, events, and many other parts of her story, but still the words remained close to the truth.  The girl in her tale left her war-torn homeland when she boarded a ship, never to return.

The Daughter of the Dusk dabbed at her eyes with a silk cloth, drying the tears which threatened to fall.  “A story well told, though very sad.”

“True stories are often sad.  Only fables end happily,” was Arya’s reply, though she did not wear Arya’s face.  “If I were to tell a soldier this story, he would believe me.  Were I to tell the story to a woman, she would wish for a happy end.”

Her reply earned a smile.  “That is very true.  Tell me then, how would the girl’s story end when she sailed across the sea in either case?”

“Some say that the ship sank as she crossed the ocean, drowning all aboard.  Others say that she became a ghost in the mists of the world, just a girl like any other.  Still others say that she learned the arts of the courtesans, telling her tale to whomever would listen.”  She grinned prettily when she finished and the woman laughed and clapped for her.

“You a quite a clever girl.  I will accept you into my service as an attendant.  You will train in the arts, in speechcraft, in music.  You will learn to captivate the minds and hearts of men.”

“Thank you my lady.”

“When we are alone you may call me Lamia.”

From that day on, Thais served as an attendant and apprentice to Lamia, the Daughter of the Dusk.  They spent very little time on the barge due to the chill of the air.  Instead, they spent much of their time in a sprawling palace near the Sealord’s Palace.  The life of a courtesan was nothing like she had anticipated.  A courtesan belonged to no man.  Her life was spent entertaining clients, but there was not always an expectation of sex.  Her skills lay in the entertainment she could provide.  Her mind and her looks were her greatest assets.

Thais learned to serve tea, to dance, to speak as the client wished to hear, and she learned that it took a quick mind to win a man’s heart.  She learned that, although she did not have a voice for singing, she did have a certain amount of skill with the lap harp.  As the months passed, she would play for hours while the Daughter of the Dusk entertained her suitors.  She would accompany her mistress and her companions to the theaters and to balls held in many wealthy homes.  Once, in another life, she knew a girl who would have loved the life Thais was living.

Her most difficult task lay, not in learning to be a companion to wealthy men, but in the one task Lamia assigned to her from her second day as an attendant.  Sewing.  She hated sewing.  Thais, she supposed had no issue with using a needle and thread.  It was a different girl, a girl much deeper within who hated sewing, but she was dead and gone.

“Sew straight, little one,” Lamia would tell her.  “Sew straight, for if ever your dress should tear when you are entertaining, you may be able to fix the threads without anyone noticing.”

She tried every day.  Her thread would knot.  Her thread would break.  She would prick her thumb, but she would never complain.  She stitched until her fingers ached.  She stitched until the Daughter of the Dusk smiled at her and told her that she had done a good job.

Her days were spent sewing, playing the lap harp, reading, dancing, and becoming a woman whom any man would desire.  She was taught about pleasure by watching the courtesan with her men.  Thais was never expected to touch a man or to be touched.  Her job was to watch and learn.

Day by day, month by month, she learned.  Her training as a courtesan was by far the most expansive education she had ever received in her life.  She learned that the most important part of being a courtesan was learning secrets.  Gossip swirled about like snowflakes in the playhouses and palaces of Braavos.  Secrets were whispered on silken pillows and in dark halls.  Thais learned and remembered, even when she played her harp.

She spent an entire year with the Daughter of the Dusk, seldom returning to her masters at the House of Black and White.  When she did return, she told them what she had learned.  At first she told them about the skills she was learning.  Later, she told them bits of news which she had heard.  In her final two months of service she was given two tasks.  She was given a contract to fulfill for Him of Many Faces, and instructed to have one contract as a courtesan.

Ten thousand gold dragons was the price paid by her first and only customer.  Ten thousand dragons for the body of a girl who belonged to the God of Death, though that particular detail was not known to the man.  He was a handsome young merchant from Lorath.  He was entranced by her beauty and her skill with the harp.  His father was a regular customer of the Daughter of the Dusk.  Thais was far more nervous about her contract with the Lorathi merchant than she was about giving the gift of him of many faces to another man.

She fulfilled both of her commitments the same night and returned to the House of Black and White.  She made her way through the tunnels to the clothing rooms where she changed from the elegant dress of Thais and into the acolyte robes of no one.  She brushed out her hair and retired to the chamber where she slept when her assignments were complete.

She felt no different than she had before spending her time with the man.  Her body ached somewhat, but she had enjoyed their time together.  She would miss Lamia more than she would miss the man.

The hour was late when she had returned, and she fell asleep quickly.  She saw them in her sleep.  She could smell the change in the air when they approached.  Dead things, frozen and lethal.  She ran from them, but they were fast.  The night wolf sprinted across snow covered fields, but the creatures of ice moved as wind.  There was a sharp pain before the blackness reached her.

Arya awoke screaming.  She sat upright in bed, panting and shivering beneath her furs.  The night wolf was dead.  “Nymeria,” she whimpered.  Her death had been as cold as ice.

She slid on her slippers, and opened the door of her room.  The kindly man and waif were walking toward her door.  “Why did you cry out,” the waif asked.

“They are real,” she replied.  “The creatures of ice who change men into monsters are real.”

“How do you know,” he questioned.

She took a deep breath and told them everything.  She told them the dreams of the night wolf which she had experienced since she was a girl.  She told them about the creatures of ice with an army of dead things behind them.

The worry which shone in the faces of her mentors was nearly as terrifying as the creatures had been.  She had never seen fear in either of their faces before that day.  “What should we do?”  Her words came out as a whisper.  She had not been so afraid since she had been a girl in Westeros.

There was silence for a long time.  The kindly man closed his eyes for several moments before opening them and resting his gaze upon Arya.  “You will return to Westeros.”

The waif’s expression flickered with shock before returning to her normal, placid expression.

“Why,” Arya questioned.

He shook his head sadly.  He looked old, older than she had ever seen him.  “These creatures are the enemies to our god.  They refuse to let men die.  While you have spent this past year away from us the reports of these creatures have become more frequent.  Go to your people.  Serve Him of Many Faces.”

“We cannot give up,” Arya pleaded.  “There must be a way to stop them.”

“Magic,” he replied.  “Magic older and stronger than any known in our guild.  “If they are stopped, return to us.  If they cannot be stopped, then may we meet again in the night lands.  Valar morghulis.”

“Valar dohaeris,” she whispered.  “What may I take with me?”

“Travel clothes, a weapon of your choosing, that book which you are so fond of reading, and the gold which was earned from your last contract.  You should wear your original face as well,” was the answer he gave.  “Rest now, Arya of House Stark, you are needed in Westeros again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The courtesans are based upon Hetaira, Geshia, and the companions from Firefly. The names Thais and Lamia are the names of two Hetaira in Classical Greece.


	2. We Survived

Arya enjoyed the chill of the air when she stood on the deck of Alyssa's Kiss.  She was of the North, and winter was in her bones.   She wore the face of Arya Stark, but not her name.  In truth, she did not know who Arya was other than a name.  She had not been Arya for so long that the girl was gone.  She knew Mercy, Neria, Thais, Cat, and Beth more than she knew Arya.

Her dark hair was plaited down her back so that it would remain in place.  The majority of her journey had been spent in her cabin or in the galley.  She was passing herself off as a northern girl of noble birth.  She called herself Jeyne Flint, for she did have Flint blood and there were a thousand girls named Jeyne in the world.  Her story was like a most of the rest she had told, she was an orphan looking for a place to belong.

She truthfully was an orphan looking for a place to belong.  She had been homeless and parentless for nearly half of her short life.  Once she had a home and brothers, a sister, a mother, and a father, now she was no one.

She was considering traveling to King's Landing to serve the dragon king and queen.  Her duty was to serve, to serve until the Others were defeated or die in the process.  The first ship from Braavos to Westeros was Alyssa's Kiss, a merchant vessel out of Gulltown.

She had been frightened of leaving the House of Black and White.  She had known no other sanctuary in many long years.  Of all the ways and reasons for being sent away, she would never have thought that Others would be a reason.  The kindly man and waif provisioned her well for her journey.  They gave her food, clothing, and money.  She was also given an iron coin.  They were not removing her from the guild, they were freeing her.  She was free because they saw only death in the future.  Death may have been their trade, but the Others were opposed to the god of death.

She was uncertain if there was anything in her life more terrifying than the fear of two people who served the god of death.  It shook her to her core to think that they, the people who had taught her to become no one, could fear anything.

The winds were strong and the seas rough as they crossed from Braavos to Gulltown.  She did not mind, for if she drowned that was the will of the gods.  They arrived in Gulltown late in the evening.  The winds whipped fiercely across the bay, rocking the gangplank as she descended to the docks.

She walked with the men of the ship to the nearest inn for warmth, room, and board.  The inn was busy, and she was told that she would have to share a common room with other women, but that mattered little to her.  She had lived with strangers for years and shared beds with many people throughout her life.  So long as she was warm and could sleep, she did not care who else was in the room with her. She spent most of the evening learning bits of news about Westeros.

"Things were better before the dragons," an old man said.

"Which dragons," a younger man laughed beside him.

"The queen who sits in King's Landing you nit," he replied after taking large swallows of his beer, some dribbled down his long grey beard.  "The Arryns kept us out of the wars and well fed, even the new ones did until the dragons returned.  Now they keep demanding our food."

"Who rules the Vale," Arya asked.

"Lord Harrold Hardyng," the younger man replied.  "He was the last of the Arryn heirs, married himself the last of the Starks, maybe even the last of the Tullys if rumors are true."

She felt her gut clench.  "What is the Lady's name?"   _Sansa_ , her heart whispered.

"Sansa Stark, she was Lady Lysa's niece.  Took over the Vale when her cousin died and she married the heir."

"She killed Littlefinger too, people say, maybe even her cousin."

Arya's tongue felt thick and dry.  Sansa could never have killed anyone, not pretty, proper Sansa.  "Where do the Lord and Lady reside?  I am from the North originally, she is my lady to serve."

"Gates of the moon," the young man replied.

“Is there anyone traveling that way, so that I may pay respects to my lady?”  _Sansa..._   The thought of family was terrifying and warming at the same time.

“Aye,” the older man said.  “A wagon train will be leaving in two days.  If you want my advice though, you should get back on one of them boats and head as far south as south goes.”

_‘Why bother,’_ she thought. _‘Even the faceless ones believe all hope to be lost.’_ “Thank you for the advice, but my duty is to my lady.”

She learned from the men more details about the wagon train, and stayed at the inn until the time arrived for the wagons to depart.  There were thirty or so people traveling with the wagons to the Gates of the Moon.  They were merchants sworn to House Arryn, or rather Hardyng, as House Arryn was now extinct in the male lines.  They were tasked with transporting goods from the coast to the capital of the Vale.

Theirs was a long journey, though the roads were relatively clear and their carts were built to travel through the snow.  Arya did not mind the journey, after spending so long aboard a ship, walking was refreshing.  She had never truly seen the Vale before either, so she enjoyed taking in the views of the forests and spiking mountains.  A long forgotten part of her was reminded of Winterfell, of family, of home.

_Sansa_...  Her heart twisted and turned within her at the thought of her sister.  She remembered Sansa’s screams when their father was murdered.  She remembered her smile mere moments before their father spoke.  Had Sansa believed that their father would be safe?  Yoren had said that their father was supposed to travel to the Wall.  _Father_... She could not truly remember her father, yet in her heart she believed that she would have known his voice or face in an instant.  She had seen more than one man since his death whose face resembled his own.

Arya smiled and laughed with the other travelers, learning their stories and more bits of news from the Seven Kingdoms.  She learned that Cersei Lannister had been kept as a prisoner within King’s Landing until Queen Daenerys arrived.  It was said that Tyrion Lannister murdered his own sister.  King Tommen was rumored to have been poisoned before Daenerys ever arrived in Westeros.  Ser Jaime Lannister had disappeared in the Riverlands years before, never to be seen again.  A woman named Lady Stoneheart was said to have been killing people in the Riverlands until the day the Twins caught fire and she walked into the flames.  The North was ruled by a Targaryen bastard named Jon, though some said that he was a Stark.  She kept the details of each story in her mind, pondering over the strange place Westeros had become since her childhood.

Eventually they arrived at the Gates of the Moon, where they were led into the yards of the castle.  The courtyards were filled with activity.  Men, women, children, and animals all meandered about in the wide open area.  Inside, there were even more people.  Arya soon learned that the Gates of the Moon had become a haven for the smallfolk who lived in the general area.  Winter was harsh, and the castle provided a place for the people to find shelter, work, and food.

It was some hours before Arya worked up the courage to find a steward to ask to meet with Lady Sansa.  It was a marvel how an assassin needed to work up the courage to speak with her long lost sister.  It was some hours after she decided to find a steward that she found one.

“Pardon me,” she asked the man.  The guard who brought the two together stood nearby, watching.  “I would like an audience with the Lady Sansa.”

He stared at her down his long, pointed nose.  She could see his obvious distaste as he gazed at her.  “Lady Hardyng is quite a busy woman.  I do not see how she will find time to speak with a common girl such as yourself.”

Arya was glad that her training had conditioned her to not stab everyone whom she wished to impale with a blade.  She wanted to tell him that she was Arya Stark, Sansa’s sister, but fear prevented her from saying that out loud.  She had faced death, and yet she was afraid of the name Arya Stark.  She would tell Sansa the truth, and only Sansa.  “I am Jeyne Flint,” she snipped.  “I am a lady of the north and I am here to speak with my lady.”

She held his gaze for some time before he moved to turn.  “Remain here,” he replied shortly.  “I will return soon.”

She stood as still as a statue, waiting for his return with impatient worry.  He returned eventually, trailed by a tall, blonde man and a very pregnant woman with red hair.

When the woman stood before her, their eyes met.  Arya watched the array of emotions which passed across Sansa’s face with wonder.  She was Sansa, truly, although she was a woman now and not a young girl, and she quite strongly resembled their mother.  First there was calm, which crossed her face, then confusion.  Her eyes widened and she clasped her hands at her chest.  She seemed as though she was starting to put the pieces together, cautious, hopeful.  Then a wall closed and her face went blank.

“I am Lady Sansa Hardyng.  My steward says that your name is Jeyne Flint,” Sansa said.  “You do look of the North.”

Arya swallowed hard, _fear cuts deeper than swords_... “I am of the North, though I have not been home in a very long time.  I also have Flint blood, though I do confess that my name is not Jeyne.”

The three standing before her eyed her with cautious suspicion, but it was Sansa whose face clouded with doubt.  “Are you... what is your name?”

“Has it been so long that you no longer know my face,” she asked, smiling though she could feel tears beginning to prick at her eyes.  “People always said that I resembled my father, while you always resembled our mother.”

Sansa grasped the blonde man’s hand, so tightly that her knuckles went white.  “You can’t be... everyone said that you...”

“You called me horse-face, you and Jeyne.  I was training with Syrio when the guards came to get me.  I escaped and I ran.  I ran all the way to Braavos.”

“Arya,” Sansa whispered.

Arya moved her head in acknowledgement and held out her hand to her sister.  Sansa moved forward, dropping her husband’s hand.  The girls grasped hands, as though unsure that the other was real and alive.  A moment later, they embraced, holding on so tightly that it hurt.

“Arya,” Sansa sobbed into her sister’s hair.  “I thought you were dead.”

“Not dead,” Arya murmured into her sister’s ear.  “I am alive.  We survived.  We survived.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A part of me is pretending that this is how Arya and Sansa end in canon, happily ever after.


	3. Growing A Family

Sansa awoke to the sight of her sister pacing the room while rocking Eddard gently. She smiled to herself at the sight. After so many years and so much pain, having a family again was the most beautiful thing in the world.

Birthing Eddard had been difficult, far more than Robert’s birth had been. Though it did seem to Sansa that it had been harder on Arya in many ways. Arya, who had been rather emotionally distant since her appearance, had clung to her while Sansa labored. She seemed frantic and terrified that her only sibling might die. Yet, even though the pregnancy was difficult, she didn't die. She had survived as she always did.

As she walked, Arya eventually faced Sansa. A grin lighted Arya’s face when she realized that Sansa was awake. Her smiles were becoming more and more natural as the days passed. "I think he is hungry," Arya informed in a hushed, lilting tone.

Sansa watched her son nuzzle against Arya's bosom and pushed herself up in the bed. "It would appear so; here, pass him to me."

Arya was already walking to Sansa as she spoke. When she reached the side of the bed, she passed the three day old boy to his mother. Sansa pushed aside her robe and placed her son at her breast so that he could feed.

"What is it like," Arya asked a few moments later. Sansa gave her a puzzled look in response, so she continued. "Being a mother?"

Sansa wondered if her sister could see how she glowed as she looked at her son. "There is nothing better in all the world. After father was murdered I thought that I would never find anything in this world to make me smile. Yet when I look at my sons I find that there is no greater joy or peace, though the cost was great. Some day you might be a mother as well and feel the same."

Her face darkened and she seated herself close, but at a polite distance. "It is possible, I suppose, but first we must survive the winter."

"We are Starks," Sansa raised her eyes to her sister, defiant. "We were made for winter."

Arya's darkened expression fled, replaced by an agreeable smile. "We are winter's children."

Sansa giggled at that. "Says a girl born in the Long Summer. Where is my little bear?"

"Robbie is with his sisters in the nursery."

"Half-sisters," Sansa corrected.

Arya rolled her eyes. For a moment it was as though they were little girls again. "Like that matters to you. I have seen you kiss both Alys and Rosemary before they sleep at night. You are the only mother they are like to know."

She sighed in defeat. "I love both of my husband's daughters as I love my sons, but they are still his half-sisters. Just as Jon was our half-brother though you always insisted otherwise.” She paused and switched her son to her other breast. “I wish that you could have one another when he was here last. I know it would have cheered him much to see you again. I know it would have made you happy as well."

Arya chewed her lip briefly at that and turned her head away briefly. Was that a tear in her eye? "Will he return?"

‘ _If the gods allow_ ,’ she told herself. "He was here last month, shortly before you arrived. He could return in six months, more or less, for supplies provided he is able. The North and the remnant at the Wall are faring poorly. The attacks of the Others are strongest in the North and there is little food. He is their Lord Commander and Prince of Dragonstone. His duty is to the North."

"I would like to see him again," she said quietly.

Sansa regarded her curiously. "Would you tell him what you did in Braavos?"

She shook her head. Her face became an impenetrable wall. "No, he shall learn no more of my time in Braavos than you have."

It was an old conversation, one they had had multiple times since their reunion. In speaking of where she had been since the day of their father’s imprisonment so many years past, Arya was rather vague. She had shared some details of her journeys. Sansa knew that Arya had been at the gates of Riverrun the day their mother and brother were murdered. She knew that Arya had lived in Braavos for several years. However, she knew little to nothing of what her sister had done in Braavos. From day to day it seemed as though Arya had worked a dozen different jobs during her stay in Essos.

To be fair, Sansa was not particularly forthcoming with many aspects of her own life either. In truth, it mattered little to Sansa what her sister had done to survive. What mattered was that Arya was alive and that they were together again.

“You know that I will still love you, no matter what you have been though,” Sansa softly offered.

Arya forced a thin smile to her lips. “I know.”

They sat together quietly for a while. Eddard slowly finished eating and drifted asleep in Sansa’s arms.

Arya was the one to eventually break the silence. “Has there been any news of a way to win against the Others?"

"Jon said that dragonfire helps, but the dragons came too late. Only he and Queen Daenerys control dragons, the third seems to have no master. If she had arrived earlier... perhaps then the Wall would not have been breached.” She shuddered at the thought of the breach in the Wall through which the Others had been able to enter the south. “He also said that dragonglass and Valyrian steel work to kill the monsters. No matter how much effort is made to supply the cities, there is simply not enough of either substance. Our only hope is spring returning."

Arya was biting her lip again, her hands twisted together pensively. Her eyes were trained upon Eddard. “In Braavos, before I left, my guild master said that magic would be able to win against them."

Sansa bowed her head and looked upon her son as well. Would that he had been born into a far different world. He should have been born into a world of light, warmth, and song, but life was not a song; she had learned that lesson long ago.

“Queen Daenerys told me that the dragons were birthed by magic. Perhaps she will also find a magic strong enough to defeat them.”

Sansa forced a hopeful smile to her lips, which Arya emulated. “Perhaps one day she might.”


End file.
